


Moments

by twowritehands



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, Domestic, Fluff, M/M, Modern AU, Sci-Fi, Supernatural - Freeform, random snapshots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 12:50:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1819108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twowritehands/pseuds/twowritehands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of Marcus/Esca snapshots. Totally random. No order. Lots of different universes. Just having fun with a word generator :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Writing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marcus_aquila](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marcus_aquila/gifts).



> For marcus_aquila :)
> 
> Happy Birthday! Wish there could be more, but the weekend has arrived a lot faster than usual.... lol

Marcus woke because he had rolled over face first into the furs, and a breath sucked the animal hair into his nose at just that way to tickle the inside of his nostrils something fierce. He jolted and flopped over with the consequent alarm of an oncoming sneeze, batting his huge hand against his nose and thus stemming the need before the coming explosion. Crisis averted.

But he was awake now, aware of light and cool air, and the warm body near him in bed.

“Bad dream?” Esca asked with a smirk in his Too Awake voice.

Marcus made an unintelligible sound in response, still clinging to sleep so not opening his eyes and burrowing into the blankets away from the light and the living.

There shouldn’t be light; they had drawn the shutters in order to prevent Marcus’ legionaries from seeing their commander with his knees bent up to his ears weeping with undying love for the shield bearer between his thighs, driving into him with ferocity and _far_ too much devotion. It was not, after all, sanctioned in Rome for men to lie together with too much emotion beyond lust for flesh. Nor was it appropriate for the higher ranking--in age, heritage, and position--to spread his legs for his inferior.

Add that Esca was a _Briton_ , and it was not just unsanctioned, it was sacrilege.

And so they hid away their lovemaking. Esca never complained, but Marcus’ heart sometimes did. He often wanted to parade before the whole world the blessing to his miserable life that was Esca, and the way the freed man thought, the way he spoke, the way he smiled, the way he moved. Dreams of these things prompted Marcus to open his eyes because the real thing was better than his mind could recreate, and the real thing was next to him. For life.

_Mithras, thank you for Esca._

Blinking open his eyes, Marcus found that the first image he was gifted of his lover this morning was the curve of his bare back where he sat up in the middle of the bed, facing away and bent over his lap, knee drawn up to balance a wax tablet. He held a stylus in his left hand, pressing its tip into the wax to form Latin lettering.

“You are meant to hold that with your right,” Marcus rumbled with sleep thickened voice.

This was staunchly ignored; Marcus did not press the issue, caring little in the face of the pleasure he got in seeing his lover embrace his place in Rome. Esca hadn’t blinked an eye when he’d been told that to be the first shield bearer of an honored centurion he would be expected to have a Roman education. Esca had, in fact, taken the challenge with dignity and a tenacious spirit.

Hence, practicing writing at _dawn_ on Marcus’ day off.

With a yawn, the centurion sat up and propped his chin on Esca’s shoulder to watch his work, pressing a kiss to the tattooed flesh there at regular intervals. It seemed the Briton was copying from memory a speech his tutor would have taught him from history. Marcus grinned as the familiar words appeared slowly one after the other.

When Esca had completed the work, he held it up, beaming.

 _This is easy_! He said in his native tongue.

Marcus laughed and this time his kiss to Esca’s shoulder had some teeth in it, and he replied in kind, _Let us celebrate your diligent work._

The wicked gleam in Esca’s eyes matched so perfectly with the bowing smirk in his lips, the superior arch in his eyebrow. _No wonder Rome was not built in a day._


	2. Together

The cooling wind pushed against the wheat in soothing waves and buoyed Marcus’ already high spirits like nothing else as he made the climb towards the field, tools in hand to harvest the crop.

Esca walked ahead of him, carrying his own sickle on one shoulder, his sleeveless tunic catching the wind like sails and billowing out around his small frame, his shaggy bronze hair sweeping all to one side of his head, parting just above his ear in a neat pale line from his temple backwards.

Marcus had a mind to trace that line. It was, perhaps, the very place on Esca’s head to which Marcus had, just last night, pressed his lips between the panted words of pleasure he’d spoken into Esca’s ear while he knelt, wrapped in the Briton’s strong legs, over him and bled into him all the things that words could not define.

Thoughts of it brought a blush to Marcus now, and he simultaneously hoped his gods would forgive him and prayed for more nights like that to follow. Never in his life had he ever felt like he was a part of something good until he became a part of Esca. He hoped never to part from him.

He wanted dearly to bring up what had happened. They had not spoken of it; had fallen to sleep in each other’s arms and woken apart but with their feet tangled together. Beyond a few words as they made breakfast and took care of daily chores around the farm, little had been exchanged except for comforting, warm smiles.

There was no need to discuss the night and the pleasure they had taken in weaving their hearts into one, but Marcus wanted to bring it up nonetheless, if only to express how sorely thankful he was that it had happened. How joyous it was for the son of Aquila, who had always had so little to be joyous of, to find himself with someone as courageous and honorable and smart and _kind_ as Esca. Never mind beautiful.

Mithras, there was no beauty to match this.

Marcus widened his strides and caught up to Esca, the backs of their hands brushing before the Roman slid his nails down Esca’s wrist and palm and laced their fingers. He wanted to say something. He felt he should. It was there, something Esca needed to know, burning and swelling and growing heavier in his chest.

Marcus squeezed his lover’s hand as his mind raced to find the words to begin. Esca squeezed back, drawing Marcus’ attention, lifting him out of his thoughts. The young Briton was looking up at him with a smile, wide and carefree and so handsome. His eyes held warmth and understanding, and Marcus smiled back. The pressure in his chest lifted with the wind.

What need did he have for words?


	3. Laughter

“Hey, charm blossom,” Esca barked from the third row, pausing the rehearsal mid-line and addressing his lead, “How about leaving your issues at home and, I don’t know, _acting_ like you’re as happy as Juliet is supposed to be right now? You know, _pretending_ like your life isn’t shit. There’s this whole thing where you _fantasize_ that are not yourself but are this girl who loves a boy, and _not_ , oh I don’t know, some cheerleader who just got dumped or whatever. You are paid to _make believe_ that your life doesn’t exist. So leave. Your issues. At home.”

“We’re not getting paid,” Marcus snorted from his place on stage right next to the cowering Juliet. The whole cast and crew chittered with laughter as they tended to do for the handsome senior. The director’s sharp gray gaze snapped to him, deadly, and the lead realized he was going to pay for that laughter later.

Why had he _said_ that?

But Marcus knew why. It was in part a reflex to act more immature as befitting his role as a _student_. It was in some way nerves in the face of _the heat_ he felt whenever he glanced towards his _teacher_. But it was first and foremost overcompensation brought on by a panicked strategist: be snarky and somehow they’ll never see that you bend over for him.

He gulped, palms going sweaty, his rolled up script bouncing against his thigh in a rapid pace to match his heartbeat. (This was not unusual. Marcus was always moving his hands or bouncing a foot, incapable of keeping still). The laughter died as quickly as it came, everyone aware what a colossally _stupid_ thing it was to laugh at that lame, lame, so very lame comment.

Esca slowly drew in a deep breath and then, those eyes still boring into him, he started calmly--oh, it was always the worst when he was calm, “Aquila. I realize how taxing it must be for your peanut sized Neanderthal brain to comprehend what we’re doing here so I congratulate you for realizing that this _is_ a school play and thus an _amateur_ production. Christ, it was a figure of speech. Ever heard of those, Aquila? Or is a poor grasp of the fundamentals of the English language why you’re _twenty fucking years old_ and still in _high-school_?”

Too far. Marcus’ breath reversed and his vision flashed red. Everyone put their eyes on the floor remembering, for once, their mother’s commands to not stare. When normally they seemed to worship him, they now seemed terrified to look at him. Because they had been reminded of what they usually couldn’t even see.

Fire exploding up from the pride center of Marcus’ chest, he marched forward as well he could on his bad leg, “Fuck you.”

Collective gasps went around the theater and Marcus hitched up his pant leg, “ _This_ is why I’m behind and you know it!” The prosthetic, which came down and hooked forwards in a way that allowed the flexible material to give under his weight sort of like a foot so that walking was less clunky, made it look like Romeo had an alien claw instead of a left foot.

Marcus’ eyes burned, “I know you never asked because you don’t seem to actually give a shit, but I was in a plane crash. I was in a coma for three months. I was paralyzed from the chest down for _five_ months, and then I had to learn how to walk again. So. Fuck. You.”

Esca did not even blink but Marcus sensed that he had cowed the arrogant son of a bitch. Silence prevailed in the auditorium and at length the drama instructor asked, “Chariot Flight 005?”

Marcus gave a curt nod, and felt a panic attack coming on for having brought up the memory, even though he had been eleven when it happened.

“I apologize, Mr. Aquila. I assumed your prosthetic was from birth. You seem so natural with it. And you--“ he caught himself and finished, “You don’t _seem_ to be scarred or anything.”

“I got lucky,” Marcus rasped, and he forced a laugh in reflex to dealing with the heaviness of the past. To his surprise his laugh sounded light and easy, “Or at least that’s what they kept telling me.”

His laughter prompted his younger classmates to lift their eyes from the floor and be normal around him again. If he could take his situation lightly then they could, too. Marcus released the rest of his anger as the others began to move around more freely, eager to get over the awkwardness. Marcus saw Esca’s shoulders relax and caught his eye.

The teacher smirked and mouthed, _sorry_.

Marcus lifted his middle finger, but smirked back.


	4. Walk

Upon arriving earlier that evening, Marcus had parked his truck in the last lot in the big empty parking lot, well away from the well-lit event tent that was housing the deep pulse of music and the dressed up bodies of their classmates enjoying prom. Esca had known then why, and had given a saucy wink in agreement.

Now that nerve was gone and he wiped his hands on his pants legs. Over behind the wheel, Marcus’ presence was _loud_ , but so patient. He was twisted to face Esca, but so far kept his hands to himself, his eyes going from the seat between them, to Esca, to the gear shift, to Esca and away again.

The ball was in Esca’s court.

“Gotta rubber right?” Esca croaked.

“Of course,” came Marcus’ instant reply, and he didn’t even pat his pockets or anything. He knew he had one. He came prepared. He meant _business_. Esca scrubbed at his eyes and hoped to God his friends wouldn’t see him in this jock’s truck, giving it up to him. Oh god, what if they see the truck _rocking_ and look closer and see this mother fucking blue tuxedo?

Jesus fuck.

Doing the cheesy powder blue thing had been hilarious for the six weeks of planning with his friends all the way up to exactly sixty seconds ago. Now it was a big fucking problem.

He wriggled out of the jacket and while he was at it, tore open the top button hidden in more ruffles than a man should wear. Considering what he was about to do, the ruffles seemed too _pretty_.

Maybe he should top--would Marcus even let him top?

“We don’t have to,” Marcus whispered, so soft, so sincere.

“I want to!” Esca said too quickly and too loudly. Marcus, smiling like a goof, looked away to hide it but looked right back, eyes bright. Esca dared to hold that gaze (and as it went on for more than three seconds Esca honestly believed he had never looked anyone in the eye for this long.) A tremble came up from the bottom of Esca’s spine in answer to the heat in Marcus’ eyes.

What the _fuck_ do I do with my hands? Esca suddenly thought with enough panic that he might have cut his hands off to solve the problem.

Marcus, chuckling softly, leaned in and kissed Esca square on the mouth. After a moment or two to adjust, Esca leaned into it, and the space between them closed.

: :  : :  : :

“You good?” Marcus asked from around his cigarette, shutting the driver’s side door behind him and adjusting his tie. If he hadn’t been a Roman God before, he was now that Esca had the memory of his body under his hands, his hips moving so fluidly, thrusting his cock in and out with mind-blowing precision.

“Yeah,” Esca answered too quickly from where he struggled like a toddler to get his arm into a turned-inside-out jacket sleeve. The urgency of getting the hell out of here, well and far away from Aquila and this truck--the scene of the crime--had him in such a rush that he couldn’t think straight.

Marcus drew nearer, the hard soles of his dress shoes scrapping the pavement. Holding the bud between his lips, he used both hands to help Esca into his jacket, and then he caught the cigarette between his knuckles and held it out. “Drag?”

Esca took one, because, duh. The smoke filled his lungs and brought a modicum of relief to his anxiety. He released it with the word, “Thanks.”

And then he turned and walked away.

It was one hundred and ninety three steps to the event tent, and for every single one of them, Esca felt where Marcus had been in an aching echo of pleasure and pain combined.

 He smiled.


	5. Real Estate

It’s an open house in July. It is so hot that both Marcus and Esca are in shorts and flip-flops but where Esca is wearing a t-shirt to cover up his pale, burnable skin, Marcus is in a tank top that shows off every single one of the muscles he keeps toned at the gym seven days a week. People are staring, and Esca feels pretty damn good being the one holding his hand. The other couples here looking at the house are evenly split. The husbands grin tightly, polite and stringently aloof to the whole dudes-married-to-each-other-thing, and the wives smile broadly, appreciative of the gay community’s interest in the neighborhood for whatever reason (probably to do with the way none of them let their husbands chat with the other wives for too long alone.)

When the real estate agents gives them full leave to explore the house, Marcus drags Esca straight back to the master bedroom that had been pointed out on the tour. This room was the only room in any of the houses that Marcus seemed to really care about, and so Esca consents now to being hauled away from the jaw-dropping _gorgeous_ kitchen in order to have Marcus sign off on the bedroom first. No sense falling in love with a kitchen island if the master bedroom doesn’t pass the Aquila standards.

“I like it,” Esca says automatically just because there is a floor and a ceiling and enough walls to keep the two separate. It’s a fucking _bedroom_ ; nobody cares what it looks like because no one but them will see it. (Esca sure as shit isn’t going to be keeping it as clean as, say, the kitchen and the guest rooms and such.) So long as their master bed can fit (yes) then it passes the MacCunoval standards.

“Hmm,” Marcus hums thoughtfully as he walks the space from doorway to window for a look at the view. Esca makes his way curiously to the closet, and gasps slightly when he finds a miniature room instead. “Ok I really, really like it!” he cries.

“Great view,” Marcus announces, excitement creeping into his voice as he darts over to see the walk-in closet for himself. Esca has already pulled open every draw on the left hand wall and is now pulling curiously at a small eagle-shaped knob on the wall.

“A door?” Marcus asks, covering Esca’s hand on the knob to pull it open with him. It opens onto a staircase, small and long enough for the bottom to be lost to the darkness. Esca smells coldness and cobwebs.

“Ooh, where do these go?” he asks. The steps look a little uneven, and as Esca contemplates venturing down them anyway, chills sweep up his arms. Must be a draft.

“Basement, sweet!” Marcus says happily. Esca giggles, remembering the agents off hand mention of the storage space. The door’s location, while odd, is slightly charming, and so Esca looks at his picky husband imploringly. “Well?”

Holding up a finger, Marucs darts across to the bathroom. He flips on the light, hums and then groans wantonly. Esca leaves the creaky door hanging open and hurries to see the massive bathtub, the closed-in shower cube, double sink, and quaint little windows over the john.

It makes Esca’s spine tingle. He glances at Marcus, who looks back with a nervous, happy smile. He does a fast circuit around the open space again, as if determined to find a flaw. Then he laughs, throwing his meaty arms out wide. “I love it too!”

Esca goes a little breathless. After countless houses, this is the first time they have agreed on anything. Are they standing in their future home right now? When their eyes meet, they are drawn together as if magnets.

“You really like it?” Esca asks, fearing that Marcus has simply surrendered his dream of the perfect bedroom/bathroom combo in favor of Esca’s industrial size kitchen dream, because so far it doesn’t seem possible for both to exist under the same roof.

Marcus’ hands loop around his waist and settle at his hips. “Yes.”

“And we can afford it, right? I mean we didn’t just fuck all and start looking out of our range again, did we?”

“No,” Marcus says shortly, suppressing a laugh. He kisses Esca, who somewhat naughtily break the PDA rule and steals Marcus’ tongue to really enjoy himself ( _here_ for the first time in the room they will fuck in for the rest of their lives) because, after all, they are alone.

Until the little door shuts totally on its own.


	6. Chip

Marcus gulped. Esca was eating potato chips today. The way this boy ate potato chips was a sin. He ate one _crisp_ (as they were called here) at a time, slowly, lips tilted ever so slightly upwards just from the salty, delicious flavor. And he never put the chip in his mouth. He’d pick it carefully from the bag, examine it with a flick of his bright grey eyes, then stick the saltiest side to his tongue, and, like a lizard or something, draw the food into his mouth whole. The bigger chips never broke. Esca just opened his mouth wider, _so wide_ , and down the damn thing went with a brittle, succulent sounding crunch.

Clearing his throat, Marcus turned back to the white board, and wished he had not tried to be the cool new teacher who allowed snacks in the class room.


	7. Plastic

A touch to his chest turned him on. As his systems fired to life, Marcus stood up, lips tilting into a big smile before he saw the state of things. The room was a mess, it was past dinner time, and tears shone in the young man’s grey eyes as he looked at Marcus dead on. He did not speak. His wet lips were parted around breath that registered inappropriate alcohol levels on Marcus’ screens. After a long moment of this puzzling stare, Esca’s lip trembled and he walked away.

Marcus concluded sadness from the downward pull at the corners of his lips, the dejected hang of his head and shoulders as he slumped away. The feeling was likely caused from a number of sad circumstances in his master’s life. Esca’s parents had not been home since his seventeenth birthday. He had not grown any more since before then. And he had very few friends—none of the other children permitted into the house seemed to smile that genuinely at Esca, and always ordered Marcus to deliver food and objects by calling him Robot, despite Esca’s indignant remarks to the contrary. “We call him Marcus.”

Yes, it was most likely the lack of family and friends that made the master of the house retreat now to the terrace where the flashy personal-air-mobiles whirred by in a lazy arc around the tallest building in the city. Marcus looked where the boy looked, and took in the vast scene of sprawling metropolitan rush hour. It was in many ways beautiful, even to a machine.

Especially to a machine.

“Would you like something to drink, Esca?” Marcus asked. He was not permitted to call his master by any other name.

“No,” Esca said shortly. The word sounded angry. Intrigued by this contradicting emotion, Marcus moved to stand next to the human and moved his eyebrows closer together to signify confusion.

“What?” Esca asked, almost smiling.

“You are crying but you are angry at me.”

“Get over it.”

“May I know the mistake that I made, to prevent your being angry with me ever again?”

Esca looked down. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” he muttered to the railing he leaned on. A far away distant look entered his grey eyes and he straightened, heaving a sigh. “Nothing. Never mind. You’re perfect, Marcus. Just the way Aquila intended the Eagle series. You’re basically human. Intelligent mind… plastic heart.”

Marcus tilted his head. “The material of my heart angers you?”

Esca laughed and the sound was as random and out of place as the anger had been with the tears. “I said never mind, Marcus. Power down.”

“As you wish, Esca,” Marcus said. He returned in doors, to his charging bay, connected, and shut off his main power. The auxiliaries flickered on, no lights, no cameras, nothing but the mechanical whir of his plastic heart clicking as it pumped coolant through his metal skeleton. And in the loneliness of a plastic heart, Marcus waited to be needed by Esca again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not very sure about this one....felt too sad. But I like to think of it as a small piece of a much larger story that of course has a happy ending. :)


	8. Pencil

The backstage area wasn’t lit. Marcus stood crowded against his band members, listening to the roar of the crowded club and the intimidatingly good band that was currently rocking out. He felt a little sick. He broke once more into a nervous pacing between the old, sticky pay phone and the guy with the headphones who had just said they would be on in five minutes.

Five minutes. And they still didn’t have a drummer.

“Christ,” Marcus moaned, rubbing the back of his neck where the strap of his fender-strat pulled at his overheated skin. He had swung the instrument out of his hands around to his back to keep it out of sight, only to nervously reach for it again and strum at the strings too many times already. His neck was irritated and he feared being distracted by it during the show.

“Goddammit, I am going to kill him for doing this to us!” the bass player said, flopping all of her red hair across the top of her head, flashing to the room her neck tattoo and all the earrings adorning that ear as she sat, helplessly, on the arm of the conveniently placed couch. The guy on keyboard didn’t say anything, he didn’t move. He remained laid out on that sofa like it was his coffin, breathing evenly, his hat over his eyes, a new sharp pencil behind his ear like this was just another practice where he could take notes.

Tech guy touched one side of his headphones, and then turned to them, said, “Two minutes.”

“Fuck!” Marcus cried doubling with his face in his hands. Cottia, at the same time, just about went to pieces, but then the double doors at the end of the hallway burst open and Esca came barreling through, out of breath, tripping on the ragged end of his jeans, and dragging a mountain of an old guy with him by the wrist. Old guy was holding a pair of drumsticks and grinning.

“Esca, GOD!” Cottia screeched, and Marcus stared, dumbfounded at the remarkable replacement his boyfriend had scrounged up just, literally, in the nick of time.

“I—“ the words cracked and were gone in Marcus’ throat as the large hairy man stopped in front of him. Guern only laughed and clapped him on the back. “Hey, I know all your songs by now, living over that damn garage. Will you let me make it up to your father’s memory, helping you tonight like I should have helped him?”

Tears sprang to Marcus’ eyes, and he reached for the strat on his back, the only part of his dad he had anymore. In more ways than one, it would be like Guern was playing with an old friend tonight. The tech guy shouted that they had to go _now_ so Marcus nodded mutely and Guern rushed past him, giving a shout of morale to the others as they leapt off the couch and filed out onto the stage together.

“Go, baby,” Esca said, pushing the totally dazed Marcus in the direction of the lights. Marcus stumbled, but stopped, grabbed Esca by the back of the head and kissed him as hard as he could. As always, the kiss started as a fight and ended with Esca melted into him. Marcus’ body was on fire, wanted to keep going and take everything Esca’s pliant, willing body could give right now on that ugly fucking couch. But their lips smacked apart, and the sound of a crowd chanting for Lost Eagle reached Marcus’ ears.

Esca was smiling brighter than anything in the world. Marcus gave him a quick squeeze. “I fucking love you more than music,” he gasped. Then he left Esca’s astonished expression backstage, and went to rock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you haven't noticed by now, my sister and I sort of had fun taking each piece AWAY from the prompt word. So instead of a piece ABOUT a pencil, we just see a pencil, briefly, in the back ground. lol


	9. Tank

 

Esca was in ratty cuts off, shirtless and wet up to his arm pits as he worked on getting the office’s biggest fish tank clean. He would probably have to climb inside the thing to get the bottom scum, but right now, he only worried about catching all the fish. Eight were missing from his list, hiding in the extensive playground of plastic seaweed and sandcastles and pirate skulls.

On the other side of the dentist office, the boss was perched on his rolling stool, back propped in the corner, legs propped on the counter, wedged there in a sort of make-shift recliner as he crossed off species on the list as Esca’s net ensnared them. He clicked his pen and tapped his toe to music in head.

Esca worked in silence, broken only by his occasional grunt of frustration when he spotted a fish flitting from one hiding place to the other too fast for his bulky net to grab. When the same angel fish escaped him for the third time, Esca swore and tossed aside the net.

Enough water had been drained away already by the little battery powered pump dumping it into the spit sink that Esca was able, once he kicked off his shoes, to climb inside and hunt with his bare hands. The murky fish water swallowed his legs and chewed at the ends of his shorts which sent the wet stains all the way up to his crotch. He shivered and willed his balls not to crawl completely back up into his body.

Marcus’ voice was amused, “Cold?”

“I want a fucking raise,” Esca requested, kneeling and effectively diving up to his nipples in order to catch two little zebra fish. He stood and leaned to release their flipping, flailing little bodies into the large plastic tub on the counter next to the tank.

“Hey, you’re the first assistant in ten years to climb into that thing. Whatever you want, you got it, man. Seriously.”

Still bent over the lip of the tank, Esca met the doctor’s eyes. Marcus had let his white coat drop open, exposing his well-tone body, the business shirt and trousers, tie askew, loose enough for the top buttons of the shirt to be opened. The thick hair on his head looked as if he had just scratched his scalp back to front sleepily. A certain smirk twisted his plump lower lip.

And all at once, Esca thought of something else he’d like to have.


	10. Safe

He never felt it before Marcus. And he never felt it as powerfully as when Marcus had him naked and between sheets, warm but covered in chill bumps, soft but stronger than he had ever been in his life, free to enjoy comfort he never believed he deserved. There was something in Marcus’ touch that promised him things. And there was something else in his eyes that promised other things. And those things shouldn’t feel safe because promises like that were hard to keep and Esca didn’t think he could live through another broken promise from anyone, but certainly not from Marcus. Because when safe places aren’t safe anymore the world burns down and the ashes choke you to death.

But with Marcus he feels it anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An even ten for you! (Thought about making one for every year, but then I'd have to ask some prying questions! lol)
> 
> Hope it made a decent birthday present! 
> 
>  
> 
> *sings* .......and many more!


End file.
